Chapter 4 - Dad Knew About Gary Before He Died
Dad's old iCloud account still existed.
I did not have the password.
Aunt Leah did.
My father's younger sister had kept copies of family photographs after Mom cut contact with her following the funeral.
Mom always said Leah blamed her for moving on.
Leah said that was not why.
When I told her about Detective Reed, she drove from Dayton the next morning.
“You should've called me two years ago.”
“Mom told us you hated Gary.”
“I do.”
“That doesn't mean she lied.”
Leah looked at me.
“No.”
Then:
“But she lied about why.”
She opened Dad's cloud archive.
There were messages between my parents.
Most ordinary.
Groceries.
Ethan's dentist.
My soccer schedule.
Then, three weeks before Dad died:
Dad:
Are you going to tell me the truth about Gary?
Mom:
There's nothing to tell.
Dad:
I saw the hotel charge.
My stomach dropped.
Another.
Mom:
It happened once.
Dad:
Once is enough.
Mom:
Please don't do this tonight.
Dad:
I'm not doing anything. You did.
There had been an affair.
Mom and Gary knew each other long before she admitted.
That did not make either of them murderers.
Reed reminded me of that.
“Affairs happen.”
“So do motives.”
“Yes.”
His answer surprised me.
“But we prove conduct, not themes.”
Dad's messages continued.
He wanted separation.
Not immediate divorce.
Counseling first.
Mom begged him not to tell us yet.
Then the night he died.
9:42 p.m.
Dad to Mom:
We need to talk. I'm leaving the office.
Mom:
Not tonight.
Dad:
You said that yesterday.
Then no more.
Dad's phone showed one outgoing call at 10:31.
Mom.
Forty-seven seconds.
Her original police statement said she had been asleep since ten.
Reed sat very still when he read that.
“Do you remember your mother being home?”
“No.”
I was at Kelsey's.
“What about Ethan?”
“I don't know.”
Leah whispered:
“Jesus.”
Reed shook his head.
“We do not fill blanks.”
Then he asked whether Gary's body shop still had old repair files.
Yes.
Could he access them?
With appropriate investigative authority if enough cause developed.
Not because a teenager wanted answers.
That frustrated me.
But it also prevented me from turning suspicions into facts.
Then something strange happened.
Gary began asking about Leah.
“Why is she suddenly around?”
“She missed us.”
“After three years?”
“Yes.”
He looked at Ethan.
Not me.
“Has she been asking you about your dad?”
Ethan shook his head quickly.
Too quickly.
Gary noticed.
So did I.
That night, Ethan climbed into my bed.
“Brooke?”
“Yeah?”
“Did Dad die because I fell asleep?”
My heart stopped.
“What?”
He started crying.
I held him.
“Why would you think that?”
“I don't know.”
“Ethan.”
He curled tighter.
“I don't want Gary mad.”
I did not ask another question.
I texted Reed.
Something is wrong.
He answered:
I know. We handle Ethan carefully.
May you like
The case was no longer about paint.
It was about whatever my little brother had spent three years trying not to remember.
